


(G)love

by quaffanddoff



Series: Give_Satisfaction [8]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Fetish, Gloves, Leather Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Obsession, POV Bertie, Shame, Solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21679495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quaffanddoff/pseuds/quaffanddoff
Summary: Bertie has been eyeing Jeeves's gloves.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Series: Give_Satisfaction [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561192
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	(G)love

Hello there, old thing. I have a somewhat odd question for you: have you ever made a reckless decision that you didn’t really understand and couldn’t really explain? Have you ever felt compelled by an urge too tempting to resist?

My apologies; I know I haven’t begun this properly, but absolutely nothing about this situation is proper, so I figure, why not embrace the theme?

Anyway—when I say reckless, I don’t mean impulsive. “Impulsive” does not entail controlling oneself all day, waiting patiently and with premeditated forethought to make one’s move, like I did today. When I say reckless, I mean ill-advised. Audacious. Dangerous.

Today, when it came time for the y. m. to make his aforementioned move, he hesitated for a brief moment. I felt this compulsion, yes, but thinking about what I was about to do caused me no small amount of horror. Not to mention, it was one of the least _preux_ actions a _chevalier_ ever did undertake. There were a million reasons not to act and only one reason to act.

That one being: I really, _really_ wanted to.

When I was finally alone, I sneaked into the one room in the flat that is not mine. I say "sneaked"; it’s not much of a sneak when you’re already alone. And I say "not mine"; it’s mine in the sense that I own this entire flat, but the servant’s quarters are just that, the servant’s. Let me be clear on this point. Just because I employ a chap, it doesn’t mean I own his soul. It doesn’t mean I’m entitled to everything that’s his.

It doesn’t mean I’m entitled to sneak into his room and steal his gloves.

Nonetheless, there I was, hurrying back to my room, my ill-gotten gains clutched in my shaking, pilfering hands. I sat on my bed and removed my tie. I doffed my shirt, feeling my heart pounding beneath my trembling fingers as they undid the buttons.

That done, I examined the gloves more closely. They were made of supple cattle hide leather, sleek ebony in color with fine black stitching. Intricate embroideries and embellishments revealed that this was a high-quality item. Despite not being a wealthy man, Jeeves always seems to have the best of the best when it comes to apparel and _accoutrements_ , which just goes to show the man’s consistently bang-on priorities.

I noted that the gloves were rather large in size, which is not surprising, seeing as their owner is an all-around large sort of chap. I slipped the right glove onto my corresponding hand and flexed my fingers experimentally. It was a decent fit, though a little roomy. I wiggled my fingers in a continuous wave, exploring the slight stretch and give of the soft fabric.

I held the other glove, the left, up to my face and steeled myself for what I was about to do. I then inhaled deeply, imbibing the rich smell. It instantly conjured up sense-memories, like that Proust fellow with his madeleines. Or were they éclairs? Some sort of fussy French confection, anyway. In this case, this smell in the Wooster beak evoked in the Wooster brain memories of jaunts in the park…excursions in the city…long drives down country roads spent watching my man's hands resting on the steering wheel, faithfully guiding our way.

With these visions in my mind’s eye, I laid back on my pillow and laid that left glove over my face so that its scent could surround me, fill me. With my begloved right hand, I caressed my own bare chest. The leather tugged slightly at the wiry hairs. I reveled in the texture of the fabric on my skin. I pinched one nipple, then the other, and they stood obediently at attention. I swept my hand down my stomach and rubbed on the front of my trousers, coaxing the arousal that was just starting to wax as my nerves began to wane.

I held my breath and dipped my hand into my waistband without undoing the fastenings. My hand found what it sought and I let out a quivery sigh. The sensation of the leather on such sensitive skin drove home the reality of what I was doing, and the meaning behind it. 

The gloves: Jeeves's. The bed, the hand, the face, the prick: mine. I was sullying this glove, and likewise, this glove was sullying me. My loins and my heart had piped up, naughty students at the back of the class who only raise their hands when they have some prankish mischief in mind, offering this foolhardy suggestion, but it was the gloves that had obliged me to take action. I knew it was my choice alone to steal these items and secretly desecrate them, but on some level, I blamed the gloves themselves, for there would have been no crime without the temptation they provided.

But never mind, it’s too late now to point fingers. Speaking of fingers: mine continued stroking, rousing my cock in languid self-seduction. I lifted the left glove off my face for a moment to watch the rhythmic rise and fall of cloth as the back of my hand tented and un-tented my trousers. There was something strangely erotic in just that, just the visual of the bulge moving up and down, obscured but unmistakable evidence of the wicked act of lust in which I was engaged.

I replaced the left glove and let my head fall back. My hips began rolling of their own accord. I became aware of an excess of friction, but employing the usual solution was not an option. My plan had been to take care of this sordid business as discreetly as possible and then return the gloves before they were missed, leaving their owner none the wiser. I knew lotion or oil would surely stain them, so I had to find another solution.

When my mouth opened in a quiet moan, a leather finger of the left-hand glove slipped inside. I sucked on it, picturing his finger inside it, gliding in and out between my pursed lips, pushing a little deeper in every time, patiently pursuing the back of my throat. He might hook that finger over my lower teeth, prying my jaw open further. Then he might resume his plundering of my mouth, but with two or three fingers this time.

Presently, I sucked a few more fingers into my mouth, although the limp fabric left a lot to be desired compared to the thrusting, rigid digits of my fantasy. I tongued the cloth and tried not to think about whether saliva stains leather.

Meanwhile, the right glove's friction was becoming increasingly problematic. I gave in and undid my trousers clumsily. I tugged them impatiently down to my knees and resumed stroking myself, more lightly this time. I tried to fondle myself gently in the same way that my manservant touches everything when he wears those gloves. I have noticed that he uses a dexterous grip, performing every task he undertakes with a characteristic smooth, nimble grace. 

That is what started all this, you know. For me, these gloves have come to represent skill, competence, and self-assurance. I watch them and wonder—how did he come to be so adept? Did he cultivate it in his years of valeting, or did he have a natural aptitude that was only enhanced by years of professional practice?

I was getting too aroused too quickly. I ran my hand over my belly, my bollocks, and my thighs instead, keeping myself at a low simmer so I wouldn’t boil over. I wanted to… No. Dammit, _yes_. I wanted to spend from the touch of this glove, onto it, into it. I wanted to cover it in my seed, contaminating it, and then clean it all off so Jeeves would never know, and then every time I saw him wearing them from then on, I would feel a private thrill from my sick, filthy secret. 

Thinking about the next time these gloves would be worn made me contemplate the last time they had been worn. Though they appeared to be clean, I know they are regularly worn outdoors, where they come into contact with all manner of unsanitary things, and therefore should not be considered hygienic. The thought should have disgusted me, but instead it did quite the opposite. Now there I was thinking about the _dirty_ glove shoved in my mouth and the _dirty_ glove wrapped around my prick; embracing the filth was so contrary to my nature that it made me feel like all my inhibitions were gone and anything was permissible. It made me feel base and foul, immersed in shame and, thus, _beyond_ shame.

I could feel my prick leaking. I took a moment to examine the right-hand glove and saw a shining spot of moisture. I wiped it onto the sheets and the signs were gone. But I still knew. 

It's not right. I’m well aware. It's not a nice thing to do, to force another man to be involved in this perverted act without his knowledge or assent. I didn’t want to do that to him. I just didn’t know how I would ever in a million years find the words to tell such a man what I think about his gloves, his ingenious hands, his ingenious self. 

I didn’t know what to do. The sensation was so beyond topping, but if I kept on like this, I risked soiling the glove and ruining the whole scheme. I had no idea how I would explain the glove being either ruined or suddenly disappearing. The only sensible thing to do would be to take it off. But I just…couldn’t. I couldn’t part with that exquisite, illicit pleasure. It scared me to feel so out of control, so thoroughly engrossed in my obsessive fixation. Every time I’ve thought about those blasted gloves lately I’ve felt a stab of passion, a rush of longing. The fervor of my craving whipped me up into such a state as to completely override my good judgment. 

What I _needed_ to do and what I _wanted_ to do were at war with each other. I was afraid that I knew which one was going to win.

I forced myself to focus on a thought that was meant to repel me: Jeeves’s horrified reaction if he found out. But again, the result was the opposite of what I intended. The image my mind supplied of his shock at my revelation nearly made me come off right then. That is what made me realize that I _wanted_ to be found out.

This desire to express myself was the truly insane part of all this madness. It would be too impossibly humiliating to speak of this aloud, but nonetheless, I wanted to confess. Maybe I could make him see that it wasn’t perverted. Well, okay, it _was_ perverted, but maybe I could make him see that perverted isn’t necessarily monstrous. Abnormal isn’t necessarily immoral. I may be vile, but I’m not evil. I’m unusual, yes, but maybe, just maybe, I’m not unique. 

So, here we are. After what I’ve done, it’s too late to turn back, so I might as well just come out and ask you.

Well...what do you say, Jeeves? I know all this must be dashed surprising for you. But is there any chance that you are...unusual, like me? Do you see the peculiar yet wondrous beauty of it all? Can you look beyond the conventional, if only just this once, and join me in the realm of the strange-yet-stupendous?

If you’re still reading this, I appreciate it. I thank you heartily if you are even considering tolerating my impertinence. Either way, I would be greatly obliged if you would please respond at your earliest convenience. 

Your affectionate, hopeful, and terrified employer and friend,  
Bertie

PS. In the box beneath this note is a pair of brand-new gloves. If you still want your old pair, despite what I’ve done to them—or better yet, _because_ of what I’ve done to them—they’re lying on my bed, waiting for you. And so am I.


End file.
